


The Making of a Scorpion

by Shmiggles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shmiggles/pseuds/Shmiggles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The marriage of Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass, and the raising of their son, Scorpius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Making of a Scorpion

Astoria is not scared, nervous, or worried, because they are amongst the things that pureblooded witches, quite frankly, are _not_. She is, however, absolutely terrified.

The cause of her terror is the fact that her father has called her to his study. His purpose in doing so had not be stated, but she can surmise what it is, because two years ago, her older sister Daphne had undergone the same experience and two days later had found herself engaged to Muireach McMillan.

Astoria sits on the green leather armchair perfectly still, because pureblooded witches do not bite their fingernails, shake, or ever give any outward appearance of nervousness whatsoever. Her father sits leisurely on a much more plush chair behind his desk, his hands folded across his waist.

Why he needs a plush chair, a desk, or even a study, was entirely beyond her. Studies, of course, are rooms for conducting business or reading books. The ‘family business’, as it is generally referred to, was conducted by brokers and solicitors in Diagon Alley, as well as the goblins in Gringotts. Father had no interest in books, although there certainly were a lot of them in here. No, father’s life was a combination of elf-made wine, firewhisky, good food, hippogriff polo, and pontificating on the terrible state of the Ministry.

‘Well, you’ve finished your education at Hogwarts,’ he finally says, ‘and you’re a lady now. Have you thought at all about your future?’

Astoria knows that that question is not about a career. He wants to know whether she is currently involved with a boy of sufficient social standing. ‘No, Father,’ she answers.

Her father smirks slightly. ‘I have been in contact with Narcissa Malfoy,’ he says, ‘about her son Draco. Do you know him?’

‘I know who he is, but I have never spoken to him, Father.’ _Of course I know who he is, he is the only Death Eater with the Mark to be in neither prison nor coffin_ , she thinks petulantly. ‘When shall I meet him?’

‘He will be here at ten tomorrow,’ her father replies.

Astoria merely nods in response.

‘Very well, you may go.’

* * *

Draco Malfoy is sulking, and cares not a whit that his mother knows. Father is in prison, the family fortune had been snatched from under them, the manor is in disrepair and despairingly empty of anything at all, the house elves had been redistributed, they are unemployed and unemployable, they are reviled by the Light as Dark and by the Dark as traitors alike, they had been cast down on the society ladder to the same rung as the Dementors, and Mother is _still_ arranging his marriage. All the other rules of high society had been broken; why comply with _this_ one?

It would have been perfectly fine if it had been Pansy Parkinson, of course. Pansy had been his companion, as it were, through school, and he was rather attracted to her. The Parkinsons had been advocates of blood purity, but never had the gumption to stand at the Dark Lord’s side. There had been no relations between the Houses of Malfoy and Parkinson since 1793, so it had been relatively easy for the families to sever all contact, at the behest of Hector Parkinson.

So now, he was to marry Astoria Greengrass. If he hadn’t known her sister, she could have been a mudlood prostitute for all he knew.

* * *

Astoria looks around her bedroom. Not _their_ bedroom, _her_ bedroom. There is a bed, a wardrobe, a door, a window, and a leak in the ceiling. She understood that her new husband’s family is having a rough time, that is, _her_ family is having a rough time, but this is ridiculous. Even at the lowest depths of their poverty, the Weasleys had had more than this.

Astoria curses the name of her father. He had jumped at the chance to have one of his daughters marry into the Malfoy name, oblivious to its status as an obscenity and the poverty now associated with it. There would be no more parties, fancy robes, or mixing with anyone at all, let alone the cream of society.

Life had, in essence, ended.

So now it is her wedding night. She knows what is supposed to happen, and that it leads to the siring of heirs, but as to the mechanics of it, Astoria has no idea. After all, witches of pure blood do not speak of such things.

In answer to her wonderings, the door opens, and her husband, Draco Malfoy, stands before her. He enters the room, closes the door behind him, and slowly approaches the bed upon which she is seated.

Astoria swallows in anticipation. She knows that this was one of the defining moments of any woman’s life, witch or muggle.

He does not undress her, but merely raises her robes and removes her underwear, and does the same for himself. He waits a few moments, and then a few _more_ moments, for himself to be… ready, and then he begins.

The rhythm is disconcerting; it is even and constant. Astoria is irresistibly reminded of a moving diagram of an internal combustion engine that she had seen in Muggle Studies. Other than the obvious, he does not touch her; his arms are hanging limply by his sides as he stands at the end of the bed. He does not look at her, but faces the wall ahead of him, his eyes closed. His face bears an expression of pure boredom.

Then, it is over, and he is gone.

Astoria Malfoy rolls over and cries herself to sleep.

* * *

When Astoria finally finds her way to the dining room, she is more than surprised. The humongous dining table, with a disturbingly large maroon-coloured stain at the very middle, only has four chairs around it. There is another chair, quite obviously designed for the head, set off to one side. Astoria hazards a guess at its last occupant.

She is glad that she had ate as much as possible at the wedding reception last night, as it was paid for by her father, because breakfast is a few slices of toast with butter and strawberry jam, prepared not by house elves, but by her mother-in-law.

‘Good morning, Astoria,’ Narcissa Malfoy says.

‘Oh, good morning, Mrs. Malfoy,’ Astoria replies, sitting down at the table. She was caught off guard by the greeting; at home she was paid no heed by her elders.

Except that _home_ is now Malfoy Manor.

Mrs. Malfoy raises her eyebrows. ‘Look around you, dear,’ she says, buttering her toast, ‘there’s no need to be formal. Call me Narcissa.’

‘Oh.’ The Malfoys are amongst the oldest pureblood families, and yet the matriarch is permitting her to drop all pretences.

‘Surprised, dear?’ Narcissa asks, as though reading her mind. ‘Lucius is in prison, Draco won’t be up before eleven. We may as well behave like real people.’

‘Very well,’ Astoria says, smiling, and helps herself to some toast.

* * *

After breakfast, Astoria wanders the manor to get a feel for the house she is living in. The rooms are mostly bare of furniture and carpets; there are dark rectangles on the musty green walls where landscape paintings had presumably hung for centuries. There is dust _everywhere_.

The one thing that the house is full of is portraits. As they had with all the Death Eater families, the Aurors had seized and destroyed any Dark artefacts, and then the solicitors and auditors had seized everything but enough money and furniture to live with and any personal belongings, and auctioned them off. The proceeds were used by the Ministry for war reconstruction. Two years ago, Astoria was in favour with this policy, but now she has to live with it. It seems much more unjust than it had then.

* * *

Draco manages to show his face by lunchtime. He acknowledges neither his mother nor his wife; he merely eats with a disgusted expression and left. Astoria can not fault him for his attitude towards the sandwiches of some horrible meat-like substance, but she tries to hide it, as Narcissa appears to be doing.

‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ Narcissa asks rhetorically, nodding towards the sandwiches as soon as the door shuts behind Draco.

‘Oh, ah…’ Astoria replies, exactly as her mother had taught not to.

‘It’s called SPAM,’ Narcissa continues. ‘If Lucius hadn’t involved himself with all that nonsense, we’d be eating something decent, but, well…’

Astoria has no response, so she nods and continues to eat, trying to ignore the taste.

* * *

Dinner (two sausages each and a loaf of bread) is unremarkable. Astoria is all ready accustomed to the silence that follows her husband.

* * *

By the end of the first day, Astoria has realised that the once-proud manor had been emptied of everything but four beds, four wardrobes, the dining table with five chairs, the family portraits, the family tree tapestry, eight sets of bed linen, eight towels, the basic cooking utensils, and a few plates, bowls, and sets of cutlery.

By the end of the second day, Astoria has realised that she had spent the entire day looking for something to occupy herself with, and not found a thing.

After Draco leaves the dining room at dinner, Astoria tells Narcissa that she wishs to visit her father, and asks whether she would need Draco’s permission.

Narcissa laughs. ‘Do you really think he’ll notice? Go.’

* * *

Father is rather surprised when the house elf shows Astoria to the sitting room. (She can’t find her own way there any more because she is now a member of the House of Malfoy.)

‘Back all ready, Astoria?’ he asks jovially.

‘I am thoroughly bored there,’ Astoria answers boldly. Father had put her there, after all.

‘You ought to go shopping with your sister, then,’ he answers, opening his newspaper. ‘You always seemed to enjoy that.’

‘I haven’t any money,’ Astoria replies coldly.

‘Then ask your husband for some,’ Father replies indifferently, as though this is the most obvious of ideas.

‘He hasn’t any either,’ Astoria responds, getting to the core of the matter.

Father sighs. ‘In saying that I meant for you to get it out of the Malfoy vault at Gringotts, you silly girl.’

‘Mrs. Malfoy closed the vault, because all the remaining money is invested so as to provide money for _food_ ,’ Astoria spits.

‘Your mother-in-law manages the money?’ Father asks, incredulous, and, as usual, missing the point entirely. ‘Your husband is the patriarch, that ought to be his duty.’

‘Draco appears to be interested in nothing at all. He is yet to speak to me after the wedding,’ Astoria says coldly.

Father, apparently, has had enough. ‘How dare you speak to me in such a manner! You may be a Malfoy, but I remain your father!’

Astoria raises an eyebrow. ‘Yes, you are my father who forced me to live worse than the Weasleys.’

And with that, she turns and leaves, ignoring her father’s indignant ravings behind her.

* * *

Every Friday night, Draco enters Astoria’s bedroom and has sex with her. She hates it, because it is cold, it is mechanical, and he only does it to produce an heir to his poverty. But she is thankful for it, because it is the only marker of the passage of time.

* * *

Today is important for two reasons. Astoria has been married for two weeks, and today she discovered how her husband spends his tine.

Draco Malfoy sits in the middle of the floor of what was most likely the study, drinking a bottle of muggle beer. When it is nearly finished, he casts a Replenishing Charm on it and begins again.

When she asks Narcissa about it, she only smiles sadly. ‘We only have enough money for what I buy everyday: two tins of SPAM, six sausages, a bottle of beer, and occasionally margarine or jam. If I let him be drunk every day, he’ll let me mind the money,’ she says.

* * *

Draco Malfoy drinks, because there is nothing else to do. Everything is gone. Why Mother betrothed him to the Greengrass girl is beyond him: the line has no future. Any heir he sires shall surely be killed by some zealous Gryffindor as soon as he or she enters Hogwarts. He still attempts to sire one, though, because that is the only purpose of his existence.

Draco takes another sip, another, and another. He refills the bottle, drains it, and eventually falls asleep. He dreams of the past; not of the Dark Lord’s reign within his home, but of the toys he once had when he was a child and the games he played with them.

* * *

Astoria looks sadly at the robes in her hands.

She has one set of robes in the back of her wardrobe, her best robes, in pristine condition. She is keeping them for occasions when she leaves the manor. The only problem was, she hasn’t left the house’s dying grounds. Narcissa does the shopping in the Muggle village, transfiguring her robes into muggle attire. She still keeps the robes, however, because she still might need them. She had never taken Divination, after all.

The robes in her hands, like all her other clothes, are frayed and worn. She sighs, and starts to patch them with a few handkerchiefs she brought with her from her father’s home.

Now she is truly a Malfoy.

* * *

Today at breakfast, Narcissa wishes her a Merry Christmas. Astoria’s surprise must have shown, because of  Narcissa’s sad explanation: ‘I only knew because of the sign outside the church.’

* * *

Astoria steels herself, remembering the promise she had made last night, at the very end of the year: ‘Next year I’ll get out of this mess.’

She opens the door and enters her husband’s study, where he is sitting in the same spot, clutching his beer, surrounded by dust and his ancestor’s disapproving portraits. They seemed to have been charmed silent.

Draco raises his eyes slowly to her face. Astoria is suddenly disgusted; it is only eleven-thirty, and he is all ready drunk.

Astoria pauses for a moment.

‘Yes?’ he asks, slurring it slightly.

‘I was wondering if… if…’

‘Out with it, woman!’ Draco suddenly blurts, enraged.

Astoria borrows some of his anger. ‘I was wondering if I could get a job,’ she says plainly.

Draco laughs. ‘A bit below our station, that is,’ he says. ‘Who d’you think would employ you?’

‘I was going to get a muggle job in the village,’ Astoria answers calmly.

‘Good luck!’ Draco says, laughing again.

Astoria construes this as permission, and leaves to transfigure her tatty robes. Asking while he was drunk had been a good plan.

* * *

Astoria sits on her bed, thoroughly dejected. A restaurant had needed a waitress, but apparently it was illegal for a muggle business to hire someone who didn’t have a ‘tax code’.

If she is to work, it would have to where she is reviled.

* * *

Astoria sits in the sitting room of the McMillan family, ravenously devouring scones with cream and jam.

‘My goodness!’ Daphne exclaims, determinedly not looking at her sister’s threadbare robes. ‘One would think it had been months since you last ate!’

Astoria pauses momentarily to say, ‘I haven’t eaten anything this tasty since my wedding.’ The chewing immediately recommences.

Daphne is silent for a moment, considering this pronouncement in relation to the simple Devonshire tea. ‘Is it really that bad?’ she asks.

Astoria nods, swallowing the last of the scone. ‘Tea!’ she suddenly shouts out, grabbing for the teapot, seeing it for the first time. ‘I’ve only had water since I was married!’

‘So, how is Draco?’ Daphne asks, watching her sister pour herself a cup of tea.

Astoria swallows a mouthful of the liquid, grins at finding such a treasure, and then frowns. ‘He doesn’t speak to me,’ she says. ‘Or his mother. He just sits in the old study and drinks muggle beer.’

‘Oh,’ is Daphne’s only answer. Every aspect of her sister’s new life is completely alien to her.

* * *

Astoria wanders through the village, looking at all the neat homes and watching happy people go about their business. She passes the restaurant that had been unable to hire her, and sees a welcome sign. She passes it and enters the building labelled ‘Public Library’.

The librarian, an incongruously young man, looks at her with suspicion, and Astoria thinks that transfiguring her patched and worn robes would have been a good idea. She didn’t however, so she will just have to deal with her appearance of homelessness.

Becoming a member of the library is significantly easier than obtaining a ‘tax code’, and Astoria walks home, two novels in each hand, truly happy for the first time since that fateful night when she first came home from Hogwarts.

The library card is fate’s one-month-late Christmas present.

* * *

Astoria finds the romance novels to be completely foreign to her. Her father would prevent her from seeing someone, of course, but only because she was an investment that couldn’t be lost. If she left Draco, he would track her down, not because he loved her, but because her leaving was socially unacceptable (although that no longer seemed to matter) and she had not yet produced a male heir.

Muggles had it so much better.

* * *

* * *

After six years of nocturnal visits from her husband, Astoria Malfoy has finally needed to jump out of bed and run to the bathroom in order to vomit into the toilet. She suspected it three days ago when she didn’t have her period, but she wasn’t entirely sure. While she has not particularly enjoyed the visits from Draco, she still finds it sad that, assuming she does not miscarry, her husband may not ever touch her again.

She is glad that five years ago Narcissa had saved up enough money for them to buy forged birth certificates from a man in a seedy booth in Knockturn Alley, although they had used their correct details. Narcissa works as a waitress in the restaurant that Astoria had been rejected from, and Astoria was a clerk in the Post Office. Their first pay cheques had gone to muggle clothing, as neither was particularly skilled at transfiguration and their colleagues were suspicious at their frequent toilet breaks to maintain their clothes.

Now, instead of an endless cycle of toast for breakfast, SPAM sandwiches for lunch and sausages for dinner, the Malfoys eat a variety of staple foods.

Of course, they hadn’t reached their previous affluence. Their clothes may no longer be tattered, they might be in the process of gradually collecting furniture and books again, Draco might be drowning his sorrows in Firewhisky instead of beer, but they still daren’t show their faces in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade.

* * *

When Astoria announces her pregnancy at breakfast (cornflakes), Draco looks at her, says ‘Good’, and continues to eat in silence.

Narcissa smiles and says ‘Congratulations!’ Astoria knows that she wants to say more, but she can’t because Draco hasn’t left to open today’s bottle of Firewhisky yet.

When Draco _does_ leave, Narcissa looks at her with a serious expression on her face. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll want to raise your child in the pureblood traditions, will you?’ she asks.

Astoria laughs and shakes her head.

* * *

Astoria sits in a comfortable chair in the sitting room, reading a book called _The Lord of the Rings_. The magic in it is utterly ridiculous, but the world the author created is so engaging that she simply can’t put it down. She sits and reads, as she did for the first year, because he pregnancy prevents her from working in these last few months. She and Narcissa had worked as much as they could to escape the dreary manor and its alcoholic master, but now Narcissa does so alone while Astoria indulges in her old escape from reality.

The book becomes over-engaging, and so Astoria puts it down to sort the plot out in her head. She looks up, and is surprised to see that her mother-in-law has returned from the restaurant.

‘Oh, hello,’ Astoria says. ‘Good day?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Narcissa says, and sits down in another chair. There is a pause before Narcissa asks, ‘Will this be the only one?’

‘Pardon?’ Astoria asks, confused. Narcissa has all ready read _The Lord of the Rings_ ; she knows that it is a trilogy.

‘Will this be your only child, or are you planning to have more?’ Narcissa asks.

‘Oh, ah… I don’t know. It looks like Draco wants this to be the only one.’

Narcissa merely snorts in response. ‘Too much like his father, my son is,’ she says.

There is another pause. ‘I had two sisters, you know,’ Narcissa says.

Astoria looks up, interested.

‘Bella was eldest. You’ll know all about her; she married Rodolphus Lestrange.’

Astoria’s mouth drops open. _Narcissa was Bellatrix Lestrange’s sister?_

Narcissa only smiles. ‘She wasn’t always ‘round the twist. She had a cruel streak, but a lot of children have that at that age. Anyway, next was Andromeda. She eloped with a muggleborn, something Tonks his name was. They had a daughter called Nymphadora, who married a werewolf, Remus Lupin—’

‘Lupin? Professor Lupin?’ Astoria asks, cutting Narcissa off. When Narcissa nods, Astoria says, ‘I remember him; he taught Defence Against the Dark Arts my first year… none of the other Defence teachers were as good as him.’

‘Yes, well… they’re all gone now. It’s just me, Draco, Andromeda and her grandson left from the House of Black. And the Potters, Weasleys, Prewetts, Longbottoms and Burkes, if you go back far enough, of course.’

Narcissa continued, telling stories of her childhood: of Bellatrix, the raving lunatic; of Andromeda, the blood traitor; of Sirius, who had been thought a traitor for so long; and of Regulus, who had joined the Death Eaters and then been killed by them.

‘Why don’t you go and see your sister?’ Astoria asks.

‘Andromeda’s husband, daughter and son-in-law were killed by Death Eaters,’ Narcissa explains. ‘She would kill me on sight.’

* * *

Astoria lies in her bed, clutching her son to her chest. Narcissa, who had acted as midwife, cleans up around her. Draco is celebrating by drinking himself senseless at the pub rather than on the floor of his study. He had left as soon as Astoria went into labour.

She thinks of names for her son. ‘James’, ‘Thomas’ and ‘Michael’ sound nice, and ‘Harry’ does as well, although she knows that Draco will _never_ permit the last.

* * *

‘Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,’ Draco says, and Astoria weeps.

* * *

* * *

Scorpius Malfoy grows up in the company of three people: Mummy, Granny, and Father. Mummy and Granny play with him all day (except for nap time, of course), but Father only appears for lunch and dinner, and occasionally breakfast.

While Father sits at the table, Scorpius tries to lift the heavy cutlery, but can’t, and so he waits. The last time he tried to pick up his food with his hands, Father had shouted at him that that was not the correct way for a Malfoy to behave. So he waits until Father disappears through the doorway, when Mummy moves her chair next to his and begins to feed him.

* * *

* * *

Scorpius looks around the room: it is the most colourful, most noisy, most cheerful thing he has ever seen. He grins.

Suddenly, Mummy picks him up and holds him in front of her, so that they are eye-to-eye. ‘Now Scorpius, remember: if you tell anyone about magic, I’ll tell Father, OK?’

Scorpius nods, and seals the promise. The last time Mummy told Father about something that Scorpius had done, Father had shouted at him and then smacked him. That had hurt a lot.

Mummy puts him on the floor, says ‘Have fun, then,’ and then turns to go.

If Scorpius had turned around, he would have seen Mummy watching him worriedly through the preschool window. But he doesn’t, because he is already busy playing and making friends.

* * *

When Astoria arrives home, she finds that her husband is shouting at Narcissa. When she enters the sitting room, Draco turns on her.

‘Why in the name of Merlin is my son asho—assosh—mixing with muggles?’ he demanded of her.

‘He has to learn to interact with other children somehow,’ Astoria says reasonably. ‘No wizarding parents would permit their children to meet a Malfoy, so he has to mix with muggles. You wouldn’t want your son to be antisocial when he goes to Hogwarts, would you?’

Draco has no response, so he merely staggers back to the patch of floor without dust in the study.

* * *

* * *

‘I don’t want to go to school!’ Scorpius whines for the fourth time that morning. ‘They’ll all laugh at me ‘cos of my name and I don’t know about electricity and muggle stuff.’

‘Some of them will laugh at your name, but there’ll be at least _one_ who doesn’t. Just ignore the people who aren’t nice to you,’ Granny says kindly.

‘And the point of school is to learn about things like electricity,’ Mummy says. ‘I wish I went to muggle school; when I went to Hogwarts the muggleborns knew all sorts of things that I couldn’t even imagine.’

* * *

Scorpius shakes in the plastic chair. The teacher, Mrs. Davis, is marking the roll, and soon his secret will be out.

‘Scorpius Malfoy,’ she says eventually, and Scorpius raises his hand and says, ‘Here, Miss,’ like all the other students, his voice barely audible over the laughs and jeers of his fellows.

Mrs. Davis looks sternly at them, and the room falls silent. ‘Hieronymus Marks,’ she says.

‘Here, Miss,’ the boy seated behind him squeaks amid another round of laughter.

Scorpius turns around and smiles nervously.

* * *

On a Thursday afternoon, five weeks into term, Hieronymus asks Scorpius, ‘Hey, d’you wanna come to my place after school?’

Scorpius thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘I would, but Father won’t let me.’

‘Oh. Your Dad doesn’t sound very nice.’

‘No. He’s not.’

* * *

* * *

When Scorpius receives his Hogwarts letter, he is elated, as are Mum and Granny. Then, suddenly, Mum is worried. ‘When do you want to go to Diagon Alley, then, Scorpius?’

Scorpius suddenly shares his mother’s worry. In all his eleven years, he has never left the little village in which he lives. He knows that there is nothing evil about Diagon Alley, but it is the centre of British wizarding society, which the Malfoys have so successfully hid from since Grandfather’s trial.

* * *

Diagon Alley is amazing. Scorpius has seen Mum and Granny do magic, of course (Father isn’t around except at meals), but he has never seen so _much_.

And old man walks up the street towards him, Mum and Granny. He stops when he sees them, and then walks around them, as far away from them as possible.

Granny sighs and leads the way into the bustle.

* * *

Scorpius sits on his bed, looking around in wonder. He has never had so many new things before.

( _New_ is a relative term—most of them aren’t, but they’re new to _him_.) The robes are second-hand, of course, and so are the textbooks. One of the book worries him slightly, it’s called _A Tale of Four Orphans_ by a Hermione Granger. On its cover are four photographs: an old man with a long beard, a bald _thing_ with green skin, no nose, no hair and red eyes, a mean-looking man with long, black hair and a big nose, and a young man with glasses and a scar on his forehead. Apparently the War is on the History syllabus. There is also a cauldron borrowed from the kitchen, some parchment, quills and ink (new, by necessity), Mum’s old telescope (she doesn’t know why she brought it but is glad she did), and a wand.

They bought the wand first, because Granny had said that it had to be new, even if that meant that he would have to go without other things.

Scorpius took it out of its box and examined it. The polished yew shone dully, and he could sense the unicorn hair within it. When it had chosen him, Mr. Ollivander had raised his eyebrows, but said nothing on the subject. Scorpius didn’t know what that meant.

* * *

Scorpius has a compartment to himself on the train. Scorpius looks like his father, and no one wants to sit with a Malfoy.

* * *

Scorpius stands amongst the other first-years, hiding from the crowd of students. He wonders what House he will be sorted into. There is Gryffindor, for the brave: Father would kill him if he were Sorted there. There is Ravenclaw, for the intelligent: Scorpius was above average in muggle school, but not top of the class—will he do better here? There is Hufflepuff, for the loyal: Malfoys are loyal to no one but themselves. And there is Slytherin, home of his ancestors, the only House which Draco Malfoy will accept for his son.

The Deputy Headmaster, Professor Flitwick, reads the names of the students. After Hermione Lack becomes a Hufflepuff, Scorpius is called forward.

The muttering begins immediately.

Scorpius walks up nervously, sits on the stool, and the Professor levitates the hat onto his head.

‘A Malfoy, eh?’ the hat murmurs into his ear, as Granny had told him it would. ‘A Malfoy who wants to prove himself good… Slytherin cunning, but you want to stand out from your ancestors… That’s the bravery of a GRYFFINDOR!’

Scorpius walks to the Gryffindor table in shock. No one applauds him.

A few moments later, he is joined by Albus Potter and Rose Weasley, who are kind enough to include him when no one else will.

* * *

Scorpius sits in the common room, writing an essay for Defence Against the Dark Arts. All of the first years keep further away him since last period today, when Grandfather’s role in the War had been revealed.

‘I know why everyone keeps away from Malfoy now,’ a voice said, and Scorpius looked up to see Phil Walesby, a muggleborn, talking to Albus Potter and Rose Weasley. Phil asked, ‘But why do you two talk to him?’

Rose answered slowly, ‘Because he isn’t his father. And someone ought to be his friend.’

Scorpius smiled inside.

* * *

* * *

Scorpius sits in the sitting room with Mum, nervous. She has called him here; this is no casual occurrence. Mum seems nervous, she keeps moving her mouth as though working out what to say. He wonders if she is going to give him ‘The Talk’; he is, after all, going into seventh year, and Father still hasn’t told him anything at all about… _anything_. He doesn’t really need it though; he has managed to pick up all the information through life in a Hogwarts dormitory.

Finally, she says, ‘I received a letter from Hermione Weasley the other day.’

Scorpius freezes. Of course, it’s about Rose—

‘Apparently, you and one Miss Rose Weasley have been an “item” for some time.’

‘Erm…’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know.’

Mum snorted. ‘Your grandmother knows as well. We’re both perfectly happy for you. And we won’t tell your father.’

‘OK. Good.’

‘I see you’re as eloquent as your father.’ Mum suddenly became quiet. ‘Leave this place, Scorpius.’

‘What?’ Was she throwing him out?

‘My purpose in life is to lead you away from here. The world is a beautiful place. I only wish I could show it to you myself.’

‘OK, Mum.’

* * *

* * *

Draco Malfoy sits in the park. This is the worst day of his life. It is the first time he has left the manor since the trial, and he is even more depressed than he was on that day.

When Lucius, Narcissa and Draco Malfoy were dragged before the Wizengamot, they had a _little_ pride. But now, the Malfoys have none, for today the last Malfoy shall marry a half-blood Weasley.

Today is the day on which Scorpius Malfoy shall marry Rose Weasley. ‘Scorpius’ was an apt name for his son: with his claws he cuts ties with his ancestors, and with his sting, he poisons them altogether.

Draco is the last true Malfoy.

He doesn’t know what ‘Methylated Spirits’ is; he only bought it because it was the first thing with ‘poison’ written on it in large, capital letters. He pauses, then opens it and begins to drink it.

**Author's Note:**

> Draco and Astoria’s marriage was arranged by Astoria’s father. Narcissa wished her dreary existence on no one else, but Astoria’s father wouldn’t take no for an answer. Despite Draco’s statement of loathing towards the pureblood traditions, he still follows them, because he doesn’t know what else to do.


End file.
